The Stronger Chase

by Cap Daniels

  “Oil,” said Teri.

  “What?”

  “You’re wondering how we can afford this boat and spend a couple of years looping. The answer is oil. My granddaddy died and left me the only thing he had: a dusty, dried-up, hundred-and-sixty-acre chunk of Texas that happened to be sitting smack-dab on a trillion barrels of good ol’ Texas crude. Now I can’t seem to spend the money as fast as it shows up in my bank account.”

  I smiled and raised my glass. “To good ol’ Texas crude and dear old Granddaddy.”

  “Cheers!” came the trio of replies.

  Teri asked, “So, what do you do, Chase-who-don’t-know-nothing-about-the-Great-Loop?”

  “I’m a writer,” I told her, leaving it at that.

  Penny perked up. “No way! Me, too! What do you write?”

  I wasn’t prepared for that one, especially after half a dozen margaritas.

  “Boring stuff, but it pays the bills,” I said, hoping to change the subject.

  “I’m writing a screenplay,” she bragged.

  “Really? I’m impressed.” I was thankful she hadn’t pursued her line of questioning. “What’s it about?”

  Kip rolled his eyes. “You’re gonna need another beer, Chase. You might as well get comfortable.”

  I laughed, and Penny started talking . . . and kept talking about her screenplay for half an hour. Kip was right. I needed another beer and perhaps a pillow.

  Just when I thought I was going to jump overboard, Penny pointed down the dock. “Hey, there comes your friend. It looks like he either couldn’t make up his mind or he brought one home for you, too.”

  I followed her pointed finger to see Clark strolling toward us with a woman on each arm.

  How does that guy do it?

  “Well, guys. It was great to meet all of you. Thank you for the beer, and Penny, thank you for the riveting overview of your screenplay. I’m sure Martin Scorsese will be calling any day.”

  “Who?” she asked.

  “Never mind. I’d love to read it when you finish.” I hopped from the deck to the dock.

  “Good night, Chase. Come back tomorrow and tell us about your friend and his friends.”

  I waved and headed for my boat. The closer I got to Clark and his companions, the more I noticed the two women were mirror images of each other. He had brought home a pair of twins.

  Dear God, this can’t end well.

  Clark approached Aegis II. “This is not what it looks like.”

  “It looks like you’ve found a pair of twins and brought them back to the boat.”

  “Okay, maybe this is what it looks like, but that’s not all it is. This is Faith, and this is Hope,” he said, looking back and forth between the two women, clearly having forgotten which was which.

  Faith and Hope. Interesting.

  Before I could come up with anything witty to say, Faith—or maybe it was Hope—said, “Our daddy’s a preacher.”

  “You don’t say,” I quipped.

  “Clark told us you want to know about Professor Westwood.”

  I widened my eyes at Clark.

  “I told you this isn’t what it looks like,” he said.

  “Come aboard, ladies. Can I get you a drink?” I tried not to sound too anxious.

  “Sure, I’ll have a beer,” said one of the twins.

  The other slid her right foot between mine and almost pressed her nose to my chin.

  “Look at me, Chase,” she said, almost daring me to disobey.

  She was breathtaking but indistinguishable from her sister. I felt uncomfortable having her face so close to mine, but I knew something meaningful was coming soon.

  “You’re really tall.” She slid her hand around my waist and pressed her body against mine.

  I didn’t respond.

  “Look at my eyebrows,” she said.

  She stared intently into my eyes as I inspected her brows. I certainly wouldn’t have considered her eyebrows to be the most stunning thing about her, but I guess they were nice.

  She grabbed my face with both hands and turned my head to face her sister. “Now look at hers.”

  I’d never paid much attention to eyebrows, but her sister’s were far less well kept.

  “Don’t you hope she’ll pluck those things?” she said.

  “What?” I was still unsure what was happening.

  “That’s how you can tell us apart, silly. She’s Hope, and you hope she’ll pluck her eyebrows. I’m Faith. Now you know.”

  “Now I know,” I said, thankful the exercise was over.

  “So, a beer for Faith, and what would you like, Hope?”

  “Do you have a good whiskey?” she asked.

  “I do.” I admired Hope in spite of her bushy brows.

  I returned with two beers and two Jack Daniel’s Single-Barrels on the rocks.

  Faith and Clark thanked me and took their beers, and Hope accepted her tumbler with an appreciative look beneath raised, unplucked brows.

  “Let’s go up top,” I said. “It’s a beautiful night, and the view is much better from up there.”

  Hope gave me the once-over. “The view’s not bad down here.”

  I smiled uncomfortably.

  The four of us headed for the upper deck, drinks in hand, with at least one of us bursting with anxiety, wanting to know what the girls had to say about Westwood. We drank and made small talk until I couldn’t wait any longer.

  “So, what do you know about Professor Westwood?” I blurted out.

  “Oh, he’s great,” said Hope. “He’s a friend of our dad and he teaches at Charleston Southern sometimes. He’s like a hundred years old or something, but he’s pretty cool for an old guy.”

  I sat, anxiously awaiting something earth-shattering, but she was finished.

  “Is that all?” I asked, disappointed.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do you know any more about him than that?”

  “No, not really,” she said. “He’s gone a lot. I think he lives out on Folly Beach, but he travels a lot, you know—teaching or whatever. He knows all about Greek mythology and stuff.”

  “So, he’s really a professor of theology?” I asked.

  “Sure, I guess,” said Hope.

  “Do you know where on Folly Beach he lives?” I was hoping to pull out some morsel of usable information.

  “No, I don’t know where he lives for sure. Somewhere out on the beach is all I know. Why are you so interested in Professor Westwood?”

  I thought maybe the truth wasn’t a bad idea. “Well, he came by my boat earlier today and said some things about the name of the boat. I thought it was a little weird. I wanted to make sure he wasn’t dangerous.”

  Both girls burst into laughter. “Oh, no,” said Hope. “He’s harmless. He speaks in riddles sometimes. I think maybe he wants to sound mysterious or something. He’s a lonely old man, I guess. I know he likes boats. He’s always watching them come and go, so maybe he wanted some reason to talk to you about yours. This is a really nice boat by the way.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “It’s pretty new to me, so I’m still getting used to it, but I really like it.”

  Faith, with the perfect eyebrows, wrinkled her forehead. “What’s all this about? I mean, it’s pretty weird if you think about it. It’s like we were just having a few drinks, and this guy comes up and hits on us. Next thing we know, we’re out here on your boat and you’re asking us about our dad’s old friend.”

  Clark, who’d been silent for most of the conversation, said, “I didn’t want this to be weird for you. It’s just that. . .”

  Clark’s voice faded as I sensed an almost imperceptible shift in the boat.

  Aegis II weighs fifty thousand pounds, so she isn’t easy to move. A relationship with a boat is a complex and beautiful thing. I was beginning to believe I was becoming part of the boat, or vice versa. I could almost feel what she felt. As bizarre as that sounds, it had become true for me, and I knew someone had stepped aboard
the portside hull below.

  Coming aboard a boat without permission is a sin, and in some cases, it’s also illegal and called piracy. I wasn’t concerned about pirates in Charleston Harbor, but I was concerned about the scene that was going to unfold on the flattest, calmest night on the water I’d ever experienced.

  There was one ladder to the upper deck. It was the only way up, and the only safe way down. In the tactical world, that’s called an ambush point. I was going down that ladder, but I wasn’t going without Clark. Whoever had stepped aboard couldn’t kill both of us . . . I hoped.

  I locked eyes with Clark and looked downward. He immediately understood and reached for his pistol. We were about to scare the religion out of a couple preacher’s daughters. Clark brought his right index finger to his lips and motioned for both girls to be quiet. They froze.

  He and I moved in simultaneous silence in opposite directions—me toward the ladder, and him toward the portside rail. We’d both be on the main deck in a matter of seconds. He glanced at me and I nodded. Like a cat, he disappeared over the rail an instant before I leapt down the ladder. We landed in unison, pistols drawn, ready to engage whomever had invited himself aboard our home.

  12

  Padre

  What we saw was perhaps the last thing we could’ve expected. Professor Padre Westwood was reclining on the settee with his feet propped up on the table, and his hands raised in submission above his head. “Don’t shoot. I’ve come only to protect the honor of the two young ladies above our heads.”

  I lowered my pistol, unsure what to say, but Clark did not. He kept his weapon bearing on the professor and crept closer, his eyes never blinking and his expression stoic. “Search him, Chase,” he said in a cold, measured tone.

  “That’s quite unnecessary,” Padre said. “I’m unarmed, but I probably have a few bits of information you boys might find interesting. Shall we put the guns away and have a chat?”

  “Search him, Chase,” Clark repeated.

  “Oh, very well,” said Padre. “Search away.”

  He stood, placed his hands on the table, and spread his feet. I felt a little embarrassed and even ashamed to be patting down an eighty-year-old man for weapons, but I’d been wrong about a lot of people, and I wasn’t going to argue with Clark.

  Padre was telling the truth. He was unarmed and devoid of anything in his pockets—no wallet, no keys, no ink pen, nothing. Content that Padre was unarmed, Clark lowered his pistol but didn’t holster it. Padre noticed and offered Clark a slight nod, acknowledging his tactical prowess.

  “Now that you’re satisfied I’m not here to shoot either of you, it might be a nice gesture to let those girls know that everything’s all right.”

  I stepped onto the first rung of the ladder and poked my head above the upper deck. “Everything’s okay, ladies. You can come down if you’d like. We have a visitor I think you might recognize.”

  “This night keeps getting weirder,” said Hope . . . or maybe it was Faith. I couldn’t tell from that distance.

  I hopped back to the deck to find Clark perched in the captain’s chair, watching Padre like a sheepdog watches a coyote. Padre’s laid-back demeanor made it appear that he was ignoring Clark’s watchful eye, but I suspected he knew what was going on around him.

  The girls came clumsily down the ladder, and each seemed genuinely happy to see Padre.

  “Professor!” squealed Hope when she saw the old man. He rose to greet them, accepting a hug from each of the twins.

  “How’ve you girls been? It’s nice to see both of you,” he said, smiling as if Clark and I weren’t there.

  “Great,” said Faith. “How are you?”

  “Oh, I’m an old man. I’m just thankful I get to see young folks like you having fun. You are having fun with Chase and Clark, aren’t you?”

  “Oh yeah,” she said, turning to look at her sister and then at Clark. “They’re great. We were having a drink and talking up there when you came. I think you scared them, though.”

  “Ah,” Padre laughed. “These guys aren’t afraid of me. They’re just a little jumpy, being in a new place and all. I hate to break up the party, but I need to talk with these boys for a few minutes. Do you mind?”

  “No, no, not at all. We were just getting ready to leave anyway.”

  Padre smiled. “In that case, tell your father I said hello, and don’t forget the two of you have fall semester starting soon.”

  “That’s right, Professor. We do. Maybe we’ll see you there.”

  “Maybe,” he said. “You never know where I might turn up.”

  Another round of hugs preceded the girls’ departure, and we found ourselves alone with Padre. Clark’s “freight train on Main Street” approach didn’t take long to show itself.

  “So, how do you know who we are, and what do you want?” asked Clark in a matter-of-fact tone.

  Padre cleared his throat and began. “Most of the world is populated by people who are pretty much what they appear to be. Take Faith and Hope, for example. They appear to be happy-go-lucky, partying college girls. That’s what they are for now, but they’ll grow up. I’ve known their father for over thirty years. I met him and Archie Fulton on the same day.”

  I froze, stupefied at the mention of my father’s name. Cold chills consumed my skin. The pounding of my heart inside my chest felt like a ticking time bomb, and I was suddenly sober.

  “You knew my father?” I whispered.

  “When I saw you earlier today, it was like seeing him all over again. You look like him, you move like him, and you’re curious like he was.”

  I was in awe. Questions swirled like a tornado in my mind, but I didn’t know where to start.

  Clark stood from the captain’s chair and approached Padre. “If you’re playing some sort of game, old man, it ends now. If you’re for real, you’re going to cut the riddles and tell us who and what you are, and what it is you’re doing here.”

  I eyed Clark, appreciative for his no-nonsense manner and instinct to protect me.

  Padre never flinched. “This isn’t a game, boys. But Chase, you’re definitely being played by someone, and that’s why I’m here.”

  Clark stiffened, but I was enthralled.

  “What do you mean I’m being played?”

  “Would you boys happen to have any good scotch?”

  Clark was grinding his teeth, obviously losing what little patience he had.

  I intervened. “What? You show up here saying you know my father, and then you ask for scotch?” I tried not to jerk the old man out of his seat and shake him until he told me what I wanted to hear.

  He didn’t react to my impatience. He said, “It’s going to be a long night. We’ve got a lot to discuss.”

  I closed my eyes, trying to stay calm. “I’ll get you a drink, but then you’re answering some questions.”

  I motioned for Clark to follow me, and I headed into the main salon. I uncorked a bottle of Laphroaig and poured four fingers into each of three tumblers. Clark pulled three Cuban Cohibas from the humidor.

  “What do you think?” I asked quietly.

  Clark looked back at Padre. “I don’t know yet. He sounds like he’s for real, but ours is a world of deception, and it looks like he’s part of our world now.”

  “I know. So what do we do?”

  “Let’s let him talk and see if he paints himself into a corner,” said Clark. “I’m thinking he’s the real thing, but he’s not one of us. Maybe DIA or old school CIA. I doubt he’ll tell us, but we can check out any story that comes out of his mouth, and he probably knows that. I think he’s gonna shoot straight with us. I just don’t know what his bullets are made of yet.”

  We carried the drinks and cigars back on deck and placed them on the table.

  “Thank you.” Padre lifted the tumbler in an abbreviated toast. He held the glass beneath his nose and inhaled. “Ah, very nice. I made you for a Macallan man, but I’m betting this is Laphroaig.” He poured a sip in
to his mouth and sighed. “Yep, Laphroaig. It’s nice to see young men drinking good scotch.” He placed the tumbler back on the table and then he did the most bizarre thing. He lifted the cigar Clark had placed beside his drink and dropped it into his scotch, butt first.

  I was intrigued, but I tried not to react.

  Pulling a punch and lighter from my pocket, I pierced my Cohiba and toasted the end. The Cuban was rich and aromatic, but so far, it wasn’t quelling my anxiety over what Padre may or may not have to say.

  Knowing the old man had nothing in his pockets, I slid my punch and lighter across the table. He nodded in appreciation, pulled the cigar from his scotch, and pierced the end. He lit up and took a long draw from the Cohiba. Slowly allowing the smoke to escape his mouth, he admired the cigar, staring at it as if it were a priceless relic.

  “Laphroaig and Cubans . . . you boys have excellent taste.” He slipped the cigar back in his mouth.

  “Okay.” I was anxious to get the conversation started. “You said you met my father.”

  “I did say that,” he slowly replied as another plume of white smoke rose from his lips. “I first met your father in nineteen sixty-nine in the Mekong Delta. He was the gunner on a PCF Swift Boat that had just lost a nasty gunfight with the Vietcong. The boat commander had been shot, but was still alive, barely.”

  He paused, inspecting his cigar further, and my desire to shake him was returning.

  “The other four members of the Swift Boat crew were washing their hands for their first big dinner with Saint Peter in the Great Beyond. They’d been cut down by machine-gun fire in the first seconds of the ambush. Your daddy kept giving Charlie a gut full of fifty-cal as long as the ammo held out. He’d taken a round in the shoulder and one in the thigh, but he never left his gun until the ammo well ran dry.”

  He paused again and stirred his scotch with the butt of his cigar.

  Why would anyone do that with a cigar?

  My patience was running thin, but I remembered Clark’s idea of letting the old man talk, so I watched him stir and waited anxiously for him to continue.